Hometown Heroes

by Joe Gribble

a full-blown windup and throws the gas.

  A blazing fast fireball screams toward Johnny’s glove.

  Johnny doesn’t have to move his glove as the baseball slams home with a loud smack. Johnny stands and throws the ball back to Bob.

  Bob nods.

  Johnny twists to glance over at the umpire. “We’re ready.”

  The ump pulls his facemask down and hollers at the opposing bench, “Let’s play ball!”

  Airman Parker, tall and lanky, steps forward wearing his combat helmet. He swings his bat confidently. After a couple of practice swings, he steps into the batter’s box. He kicks a small rock out from under his foot, then puts the bat up onto his shoulder.

  Johnny points two fingers down behind his glove.

  On the mound, Bob nods, then stands upright, twists to the side, and pulls his glove and the ball up to his chest. He nods again.

  At home plate, Johnny twists down into his stance, centers his glove, and looks up at the batter. “Fast ball, Airman.”

  The batter digs his feed into the sand. “Yeah, right.”

  Bob winds up and fires the ball toward the plate.

  The batter swings at air as the ball smokes by him unscathed.

  The umpire juts his hand out to the right and straightens up. “Strike one!”

  Johnny stands to throw the ball back to Bob. He glances up at the airman as he squats back into position. “Told ya.”

  The airman steps out of the box, swings the bat once, then steps back into position. He keeps a wary eye on Bob, but talks to Johnny. “I got him dialed in now.”

  Johnny grins behind his face mask, and signals for the fastball again.

  Once again, out on the mound, Bob nods and gets ready.

  Johnny centers his glove and glances up at the batter. “Fastball.”

  The batter lifts the bat slightly off his shoulder and twists his boots into the loose sand. “Bring it.”

  Bob winds up and fires.

  Airman Parker swings at air again.

  The umpire calls it as he sees it. “Strike two!”

  The airman steps back out of the box again, shaking his head. “Damn, he ought to be a pro.”

  Johnny throws the ball back to his buddy. “Bring the cheese, brother! This kid’s scared of fastballs.” He squats back down into position. “Get ready, Airman.”

  Bob launches another fastball.

  The airman swings too early, nothing but air.

  The umpire goes into his theatrics once again. “You’re out!”

  The airman smacks his bat against home plate. He turns and heads back to his team’s bench, ignoring the heckling his team lathers on him for striking out.

  Two security forces airmen standing behind the backstop with a radar gun announce the latest results. “Ninety eight.”

  The airman pulls off his helmet and mopes toward his bench. “No friggin’ wonder.” He hands his bat to a young Afghan teenager heading toward the plate wearing someone else’s oversize combat helmet.

  The teen’s bushy hair hangs loosely from beneath the helmet. He smiles at Airman Parker from ear to ear, showing his snaggle-toothed grin as he accepts the bat.

  Airman Parker shakes his head. “Good luck, kid.”

  The teen steps up to the plate and mimics what he has seen so far. He confidently taps his bat against the plate, then props the bat up on his shoulder. He looks out at Bob from beneath the huge helmet, still smiling broadly.

  Johnny gets into his squat. He signals for a fastball.

  On the mound, Bob sees Johnny’s signal, but shakes his head.

  Johnny insists, aggressively signaling behind his mitt for a fastball.

  Again, Bob shakes his head.

  Johnny gets up from his crouch. “Time.”

  The umpire raises his hands. “Time out.”

  The teenage batter looks back and forth between the pitcher, the catcher, and the umpire, bewildered.

  Johnny pats the teen on the shoulder as he walks past him toward the pitcher. “Hold on just a second, kid.”

  Johnny trots out to the mound. He takes the ball from Bob and warms it in his glove. “What the hell, Bob? You can smoke this little dude, no problem.”

  Bob shakes his head, pounds his fist into his glove. “I could. But I’m not.”

  “What, you're gonna' let him hit?” Johnny asks.

  “Yep.” Bob points his glove toward the young batter. “Just look at him. The kid’s barely heard of baseball, but he’s having fun. Right now he thinks he likes baseball, but if we let him get a hit… if he gets a hit, he’ll love baseball. For the rest of his life. It’ll be in his blood.”

  Johnny stares at his friend for a long second. “All right. Just don't let him knock it out of the park.” Johnny gives the ball back to Bob and turns and heads back toward home plate. He shouts back to Bob over his shoulder. “These little guys can fool you.”

  Johnny waves at the cop when he gets close to the plate, signaling him to put down his radar.

  The Afghan teen steps back into the batter's box.

  Johnny squats down behind the plate and centers his glove. “Swing away, kid.”

  Bob winds up and throws a gentle, slightly curving ball that passes slowly right over the plate.

  The Afghan teen swings hard, but misses cleanly.

  Johnny stays in his squat and throws the ball back to the pitcher. He pounds his fist into his glove. “Just keep your eyes on the ball, kid. Don’t take ‘em off it.”

  The teen listens to Johnny’s instructions and nods, but he never takes his eyes off the pitcher. His grin is gone, replaced by a fierce look of determined concentration.

  Bob throws again.

  The teen waits until just the right moment, never taking his eyes off the ball. He swings hard and connects with a pop.

  The ball leaps into the air, flying in a low trajectory over the shortstop and hitting the sand just short of the left fielder. Top spin keeps the ball from burying itself into the loose sand; instead, it skims quickly over the top.

  The left fielder runs up for an easy grounder, but the ball bounces off one of the many rocks littering the outfield, spoiling an easy catch.

  The teen drops his bat, and after a brief moment of indecision, finally races toward first base. A base coach standing near first windmills his arm, shouting, “Go! Go! GO!”

  The left fielder stops and turns to chase the missed ball. He almost overruns the ball as it abruptly buries into the soft sand.

  The teen rounds first and hauls for second, puffs of sand flying each time his sandals strike the ground. He makes it to second standing up, well before the ball finally gets there. Safe for a double.

  Everyone on the teen’s bench is on their feet, roaring their approval. The toothy grin reappears on the kid’s face as he waves at his father near the bench.

  The second baseman pats the kid on the back, and then tosses the ball to Bob.

  A big, burly master sergeant wearing full body armor steps up to the plate and taps it with his bat. He looks at Bob.

  Bob stares at his new foe.

  The master sergeant takes a practice swing, then glances down at Johnny. “You gonna let me have one of them softies?”

  Johnny laughs. He glances over at the security forces airman and waves for him to bring up the speed gun. He squats down into position. “Not a chance, Sergeant Invincible.”

  ---

  FOB Victory – Bob and Johnny’s Quarters

  Bob and Johnny’s ”home away from home” is a converted cargo container where they sleep and keep their few personal belongings. They’re already up, even though it’s well before daylight. They rattle around quietly, strapping on their equipment.

  “You ready?” Johnny asks. He takes a black marker and puts a big ‘X’ on a calendar. The calendar shows the previous month, already filled with Xs, and the current month halfway filled. The following month, also shown, has a big smiley face on the last day.

  Bob grabs one of the many baseballs
sitting on a rickety table near the door and shoves it into his pants pocket. He twists the door handle and steps outside into the early morning moonlight.

  Johnny follows him out and they begin their pre-mission ritual. Bob checks Johnny’s gear first. “Okay, turn around.” He continues checking the equipment on Johnny’s back. It’s a routine drilled into them… almost second nature. Bob makes sure all of Johnny’s weapons and supplies are accounted for, and that none are loose. “Fresh water?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny replies.

  Bob slaps him on the back. “Okay. You’re good to go.”

  “Your turn,” Johnny says. They switch roles, Johnny checking Bob’s gear. “I hate these missions.” Johnny says.

  “A mission’s a mission,” Bob replies.

  “Not when it’s escorting some State Department weenie out into the boonies for a photo op. Waste of time and equipment if you ask me. Turn.”

  Bob turns to face his friend. “Photo op? Johnny, didn’t you listen during the pre-brief? This is a humanitarian mission. We’re bringing food and toys to the helpless Afghans. Winning their hearts and minds.”

  Johnny continues checking Bob’s gear. “Yeah, right. Newbie State dude just wants to see what it’s like out in the desert so he can tell his boss in D.C. that he’s already been out delivering goodies.” Johnny finishes checking Bob’s gear. “You’re good.”

  They walk quickly to their Humvee. Bob goes around to the driver’s side. Johnny stops outside the passenger door. He admires the full moon, spilling its silver light across dozens of similar cargo containers. “If there’s one beautiful thing about this Godforsaken desert, it’s the moon. Feels like you could almost reach up and touch it from here.”

  Bob doesn’t usually notice such things, but he glances up at the night sky. He has to admit it’s a